Resolutions

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘Not after he killed Cara Evans,’ Mac said.

  Millie glanced anxiously at her girls and then glared at him. ‘Please, Inspector. The children.’

  ‘So you followed him instead.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did.’

  ‘You didn’t think to phone the police straight away?’

  ‘I . . . I didn’t have my phone. I’d left my mobile in the office.’

  Mac nodded. ‘And you saw him go into the B & B where we now know he’d been staying.’

  ‘Yes, as I told you before. That’s what I did.’ He frowned. ‘Look, I’m not sure what all this is about and I’m not sure I like the way this conversation is going. You sound almost, well, accusing.’

  ‘No, Mr Bennet, I’m not accusing. Just tell me one thing, though. When you worked with Thomas Peel, did you buy your lunch at the same shop on a Wednesday then?’

  ‘Well, no, I told you, or rather Millie did. Just this past year, since she got her job.’

  Alec drank his coffee and set the cup down on the tiled-top coffee table. Mac wondered if it had come with the house; it was certainly of the same vintage.

  ‘Unlucky for him, then,’ he said quietly. ‘To come back to Pinsent and to happen to be in the street just as you happened to come by.’

  Bennet frowned. ‘I don’t like your tone,’ he said. ‘I did the right thing. I saw him, I reported it.’

  ‘You did,’ Alec agreed. ‘Thank you, Mr Bennet, Mrs Bennet. Have a pleasant evening.’

  Sitting in the car, Mac said, ‘So, either Peel was watching John Bennet and knew his movements or . . .’

  ‘Or someone had the forethought to tell him.’

  ‘If Peel wanted to be seen. I know that’s the assumption but—’

  ‘It’s the right assumption,’ Alec said. ‘Peel shows himself. The investigation is reopened. I came up here.’ He was thinking aloud now, not sure where the thought led.

  ‘So, who told Peel where Bennet would be on a Wednesday lunchtime?’

  Alec shrugged. ‘Bennet?’ he suggested.

  ‘Why would he? Do we know how close they were before Peel went over to the dark side?’

  ‘Peel did that long before we knew about him.’

  ‘True. Did Bennet know? Did Bennet collude, or are we looking at an innocent man, and I’m just, as you say, jaundiced?’

  Alec shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But I think we need to keep him in mind.’

  FIFTEEN

  Philip Rains was dead. The news came just as Alec had dropped Mac at the flat and was heading for home. He spun the car around and returned to find Mac already standing in the doorway waiting for him.

  Alec drove while Mac tried to get extra details before they arrived at the prison.

  ‘Stabbed to death,’ Mac said. ‘A shiv made from a hacksaw blade.’

  ‘A hacksaw blade? How did that get past the searches? And what’s wrong with the great tradition of the sharpened toothbrush handle?’

  ‘Apparently his attacker took metalwork classes – they think he got the broken blade from the scrap bin. Whatever, it did the job.’ Mac thought of Alec’s comments about Rains the day before. About him being unable to join the main prison population because of his proclivities. It looked as though he hadn’t been safe anywhere.

  ‘What do we know about his killer?’

  ‘His name . . .’ Mac consulted the hastily scribbled note he’d made and tried to read his own writing. ‘His name is Billy Tigh, convicted sex offender, though unlike Rains he prefers young women. Three counts of aggravated rape, just transferred this week, took exception to Rains from the moment he arrived.’

  ‘No honour among perverts,’ Alec said. He pulled up at the gatehouse. Three marked cars had already parked in the yard beyond, and the scientific support van pulled up just behind as Alec showed their ID. ‘You should have had a cup of Bennet’s coffee,’ Alec said. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’

  Fifty miles down the coast, a knock came at Emily Peel’s door. Calum opened it, still on the chain.

  ‘I’m here to see my daughter,’ Thomas Peel said.

  ‘You’re what!’ Momentarily too startled to react, Calum soon recovered and pushed the door closed, but the hesitation had been enough and Thomas Peel thrust something long and metallic into the space between door and frame. Shocked, Calum realized that the man was armed, that the metal thing was a shotgun, that he, Calum, was facing both barrels. Hastily, he backed away, pressed against the wall, staring at the weapon, appalled at how solid it looked.

  ‘Open the door,’ Peel said.

  ‘I–I can’t. It’s on the chain.’

  Peel took a step back. ‘Contrary to what you might have seen in the films,’ he said, ‘wood won’t save you from a shotgun blast, so I suggest you remember that. Shove the door to, take off the chain, open it properly and let me in.’

  Calum stared. Behind him, Emily came from the kitchen and into the hall, Frankie at her heels.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  Thomas Peel heard the exclamation. ‘I’ve come to see my girl,’ he told Calum again. ‘I’m not planning on hurting anyone. I just want to talk.’

  No one, Calum thought, comes armed with a shotgun when they just want to talk. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I–I’ll close the door and take the chain off.’

  He’s going to kill me. Calum’s brain seemed to have switched from paralysis into overdrive. He’s going to kill us both no matter what we do. He looked back at Emily and saw she knew that too.

  ‘Run.’ Calum mouthed the word.

  She shook her head, eyes wide.

  ‘Run,’ he breathed. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’ He swung the door closed, calculating the risk, how much time they’d have before Peel came through. Calum had no illusions. Peel might avoid the sound of the shotgun going off in the street if he thought Calum might be prepared to cooperate and let him inside, but . . . however you looked at it, Calum reckoned they had seconds to get away.

  This was no time for caution. He slammed the door and threw himself down on to the tiled floor, scrabbling towards the kitchen as the world exploded and splinters of wood hurtled down the length of the hall and rained all around him. He crawled towards Emily and the kitchen door.

  She turned, first heading back to him and then, as he regained his feet, back into the kitchen. She’d got the back door open by the time he reached her. Frankie snarled, not understanding, but prepared to defend them anyway. Calum grabbed his collar, dragging him outside. Lights had come on in neighbouring houses, people shouting from windows. This was a quiet street and the explosion of the gunshot had shattered the peace. Outside was a yard, brick-paved and slippery. A gate led to a ginnel, an alleyway between houses. Low walls separated the terraced row, one from another.

  Calum dragged the gate open, slammed it shut behind them as he urged Emily through and pushed Frankie after her. What now? What if Thomas Peel ran down the ginnel? He’d see them and Calum knew they could not outrun a shotgun even if they could outpace the man.

  ‘Over the wall,’ he whispered and lifted Frankie unceremoniously into a neighbour’s yard. Emily followed and then Calum. This, the next door house, was empty, the occupants out. Over the next wall and into the next yard. A security light came on and Calum swore. The back door swung open. Folk in this part of the world were not, Calum thought, easily intimidated.

  A voice shouted, irritable at having his Saturday night so rudely interrupted. ‘Who the bloody hell’s there?’

  ‘It’s us.’ Emily’s voice sounded thin. Frankie whined.

  ‘Emily? What the hell are you doing down there? What the bloody hell’s going on?’

  ‘He shot at us,’ Calum said. It sounded like an absurd thing to say even as he said it.

  ‘I told her it was. I said it was a shot, but no, she wouldn’t have it, said it couldn’t be, said this wasn’t the flipping Bronx.’

  Calum felt the laughter rising in his throat, fought it down, realizing it was just
the adrenalin, the hysteria. ‘Call the police, please,’ he said.

  ‘Already done, lad. Better get yourselves inside and I’ll get a brew on. I told her, I said, I’ve heard enough shotguns in my time. Used to go clay pigeon shooting, didn’t I, but she don’t listen. Mark my words, women never listen.’

  Cautiously, Calum and Emily approached the kitchen door. This is a farce, Calum thought. This is just the most stupid thing. It isn’t real.

  Light flooded out into the yard and Frankie bounded past them all and, tail wagging, yelping a greeting, he made himself at home. Calum glanced back over his shoulder, still uncertain. ‘You said you called the police?’

  ‘I did, lad, yes, I did.’

  Hesitant, but profoundly relieved, Calum moved forward into the light, Emily beside him. He never knew just what it was that he heard, just that one second he had convinced himself that everything would be all right and the next he knew it would not. He heard a voice shout out, realized it was his own, grabbed Emily and bundled her down and on to the ground. A crash of sound and a flash in his peripheral vision. A woman’s screams. And Calum knew that Thomas Peel had followed them.

  SIXTEEN

  Billy Tigh wasn’t talking. He sat at one of the tables in the visiting room they had previously used to interview Rains, nursing a cup of coffee and staring at nothing. His behaviour was puzzling everyone, including the on-call psychiatrist who sat beside him. Prison guards stood by, but Billy Tigh was not restrained now; he had been handcuffed immediately after the stabbing and confined to a cell, but it was soon evident that he was a threat to no one else. Alec and Mac had been told that, after the stabbing, Tigh had dropped the shiv and then stood totally still, waiting for the excrement to hit the proverbial fan. It had – three officers jumping him and wrestling him to the ground – but he had offered no resistance then or later.

  He hadn’t spoken since, had barely even looked at anyone. It seemed that his anger was spent and he had no fight or even will left in him.

  ‘Billy,’ the psychiatrist spoke quietly, ‘these officers are here to ask you some questions.’

  Alec sat down, Mac drawing up a chair beside him. The table was small – they practically touched elbows. Billy Tigh did not look up.

  ‘What did you have against Rains?’ Alec asked. ‘You’d only been here ten days – barely enough time to find out his name, never mind build enough resentment to kill a man. So?’

  Tigh said nothing. He seemed to recall that he had a cup of coffee. He lifted it to his mouth, but did not drink, just peered into the cup as though not quite sure what it was. He was not a big man, stockily built with close-cropped hair and a square-jawed face, currently expressionless, dead-eyed.

  ‘What did Rains do to piss you off, then?’ Alec asked. He glanced at the psychiatrist, then looked at Mac. The doctor shrugged.

  ‘Can we talk?’ Mac said. He got up and wandered over to the coffee machine, wondering if it could be persuaded to produce something even vaguely drinkable. Alec and the psychiatrist joined him.

  ‘Is this for real?’ Alec said bluntly. ‘Or just an act to get him off the hook?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. The guards reckon he just stood there, didn’t do a thing to defend himself or excuse himself or explain. Rains had just come from the showers; he was crossing the recreation area. Tigh walked up to him, stabbed him, Rains hit the deck and Tigh just stood there. He’s said nothing.’

  ‘Great,’ Alec muttered. ‘Prior associations?’

  ‘None on record. As far as we know, Tigh and Rains met ten days ago, but . . .’

  ‘But—’ Alec said. Mac’s phone rang. He looked at the caller display and frowned. ‘Alec, I’d better take this. It’s Calum, Emily’s boyfriend.’ He stepped away from the others and listened. Minutes later they were leaving the prison and heading south.

  ‘We’re OK,’ Emily told him. ‘We’re not hurt and Mr Macintyre, our neighbour, he’s OK too. We were in his yard, trying to get away. Mr Macintyre opened the back door and we were just about to go inside and then . . . then my dad shot at us again. I thought Calum had been hit, and he thought I had, and splinters from the back door and the glass cut Mr Macintyre’s face and hands, but we’re all OK. The paramedics took him off to get some stitches in his face and his wife’s gone with him. Frankie’s still in the house. Mr Macintyre’s son’s there. Frankie’s OK too.’

  She sat in the police van, Calum at her side, blankets round their shoulders. They both looked pale and scared. The CSIs were on scene, and marked police cars were still parked along the narrow street. The officer in charge, an Inspector Collins, had wanted to take Emily and Calum away, but Emily had refused point-blank to go anywhere until Mac arrived, and she’d been so distressed he had decided not to press the matter. The fifty-mile drive had been covered at more than legal speeds, and Alec and Mac had arrived in less than thirty minutes after they had left the prison.

  Alec leaned on the open door and Mac sat opposite the young couple. ‘You should go to the hospital anyway,’ Alec suggested. ‘Get yourselves checked out.’

  Emily shook her head emphatically. ‘We’re all right,’ she said. She shook her head again, this time in disbelief. ‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘Why would he do this? It makes no sense. Why would he want us dead?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mac told her honestly. While he had fully expected that Peel might attempt to contact his daughter, he had not for one moment anticipated that he would try to harm her. Peel was capable of murder – he’d proved that – but he’d made no threats against Emily, chosen to let her believe him dead for the past year and a half. It seemed perverse, wilful, unnecessary. Neither Emily nor Calum had or were capable of doing anything that might threaten Thomas Peel.

  ‘Calum, this may seem like a stupid question, but do you think he—’

  ‘Meant it?’ Calum asked. ‘Oh yes,’ he laughed uneasily. ‘Mac, this wasn’t an exercise in frightening us witless, though he did that all right. He followed us, he fired, we hit the deck, and it was Frankie that saved Mr Macintyre.’

  ‘Frankie?’

  ‘Frankie barked, Mr Macintyre turned to look at him and the shot hit the door. Mac, if he’d been killed, we wouldn’t have been able to forgive ourselves. I never thought Peel would follow us.’

  ‘What happens now?’ Emily said. She laughed, and Mac could hear how close she was to breaking down, even as she tried to make a joke out of their circumstances. ‘We don’t have a front door. Our landlord will go spare. You think we might lose our deposit?’

  ‘You’ll be taken somewhere safe,’ Mac reassured her. ‘You’ll be looked after, I promise.’

  She nodded, closed her eyes and pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. The adrenalin rush had faded and left exhaustion in its wake.

  ‘Emily, did you ever hear the name Billy Tigh?’ The question from Alec was unexpected.

  She opened her eyes again and looked curiously at Alec, frowned, then nodded slowly. ‘I can’t remember where, but yeah, I know the name.’

  ‘Can you think about it? Let us know if anything occurs. And did you ever hear of a Philip Rains?’

  She might have heard about him on the news, Mac thought. Tigh’s was a less famous name; Rains had made the headlines.

  Her first comment seemed to confirm that. ‘I remember the trial,’ she said. ‘It was just after . . . just after my father disappeared. After we thought he might have killed himself. I watched about the trial on the news because it seemed so weird, seeing Philip Rains on the telly, accused of those things.’

  ‘You knew him before?’ Mac was surprised. Nothing he had read in reviewing the case had led him to believe that there was previous contact, but, then, had anyone asked Emily these questions before? He recalled that Emily had lived apart from Thomas Peel for several years. Her mother had separated from him; Emily had been a child, like so many, with just a weekend father, and the assumption was that he had kept his two lives apart. Mac remembered too that E
mily’s mother had remarried and moved away, and that mother–daughter relations were not the best they could have been.

  ‘So, how did you know him?’ Mac asked again.

  She thought about it, putting things in order. ‘When Mum and Dad split up, I was twelve. We moved away and I saw him every other weekend at first, then once a month, and then just for a week or so, or maybe a few days, in the holidays. I must have been about fourteen? I went and stayed in the summer holiday. Philip Rains was there, had a room in Dad’s house that was usually mine. I was meant to be at Dad’s place for a couple of weeks, but, I don’t know, Philip didn’t like me and I didn’t like him, and I was fourteen and stroppy and couldn’t understand why my dad had someone else staying at the house when it was supposed to be my time.’ She paused and looked at Mac, and he could almost feel the same thought occurring to both of them. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘there was a time I actually got on OK with him, when we did things together like going to the park or the pictures or to the beach. It doesn’t seem right, does it?’

  Mac didn’t know how to respond to that. ‘So what happened?’ he asked. ‘That summer?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she shrugged. ‘I got stroppier, so did Phil Rains, and I went home after a few days. Mum wasn’t too pleased. She wanted some time to herself with my stepdad. Ironic, isn’t it? In those days I actually wanted him in my life; a few years later and I’m trying to run as far and as fast as I can and he just wants me dead.’

  SEVENTEEN

  It had been five o’clock on Sunday morning when Mac finally tumbled into bed. Miriam had sent him a text and Rina a message on his voicemail, asking him to call as soon as he could. He figured ‘soon’ didn’t mean right then. Despite what had happened and the frantic events of the night, he fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He woke, very reluctantly, a little after nine, mouth dry and head so thick he felt hung over. His phone was ringing.

  ‘Wildman wants us at the office,’ Alec said.